Cock It and Pull It
by Akingdomofunicorns
Summary: "This is the biggest war we'll ever be in and it will last for years and years. You must remember that it's not all about wizards and witches; there are muggles out there too, fighting for their own lives. This is a race, doll, if we get to the end, we're free. If not —well, then, if not, Lord Voldemort will have the power." (In which there is no Chosen One.)
1. Preface: The Boy Who Lived

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to my beloved Queen Rowling, Evil Santa George R. R. Martin and the douchebag that is Ryan Murphy. I am the crazy person who thought Harry Potter + ASoIaF + Glee would be a good idea. Don't hate on me.

Full summary: "This is the biggest war we'll ever be in and it will last for years and years. You must remember that it's not all about wizards and witches; there are muggles out there too, fighting for their own damn lives. This is a race, doll, if we get to the end, we're free. If not —well, then, if not, Lord Fuckface will have the power. You think this is a game? We're just a bunch o' fucker waving our magic sticks and praying those fuckin' bullets hit some Death Eaters. You wanna do somethin'? Then fight. You want some advice? Don't you get fucking killed, motherfuckers." (In which there is no Chosen One.)

Reviews are welcomed. Flamers not so much but, well, if you can't resist the temptation... If you think I'll be updating this regularly, you've got another thing coming, darling. If you think this'll be short, keep dreaming. I'll be thirty and still writing this, I think. But if you're patient, well, buckle up and enjoy the ride. I do Know what I'm doing, so take a deep breath. People are gonna die, but I am a firm believer of happy endings and OTPs and all that. My angst is not usually "he/she married somebody else and now I must marry somebody else and I could never love him so I'll love the other one forever and I might even cheat but my husband/wife never dies so I could be with somebody else..." but more like "Character A is dead and now Character B must cope". Oops?

As of now the important characters are James P, Lily E, Sirius B, Remus L, Peter P, Severus S, Narcissa B. M, Eddard S, Catelyn T. S, Brandon S, Lyanna S, Cersei L, Jaime L, Tyrion L, Elia M, Arthur D, Dumbledore, Sue Sylvester... More will come eventually. And the ships are: James/Lily, Eddard/Catelyn, Lyanna/Rhaegar, Elia/Arthur. More will come eventually, too. Also, I'll let you know my chapters' titles are the best.

* * *

**Preface: The Boy Who Lived**

His mission in life was to get some action. Nothing fancy, just a pretty girl to look his way and think "Damn, it's my lucky night, look at that dude". Of course, he didn't want any pretty girl, he wanted Rachel —he needed her like he hadn't needed someone in his entire life, short as it was. Rachel was the girl of his dreams, the Belle to his Beast, even though he was much better looking than that, she was the Nutella to his happiness, the Juliet to his Romeo, the Bella to his Edward, even though he didn't sparkle. He was in love with Rachel, all he had ever done was to get her to be happy: he loved the way her hair smelled and felt on his fingers, how she screamed a little bit everytime he got close to her as if she was nervous of giving in, how his fingers tangled themselves in her hair when she pulled away and it felt like silk. Rachel was his soul mate, of that he was sure, she had only forgotten about him recently because of Glee, but he loved that she was driven and passionate. He just had to make her remember.

That's why, a month after the start of school, Jacob Ben Israel had decided that serenading Rachel Berry was his best option to win her heart back. He had every intention of singing under her window for a total of three hours straight, coupled with a show of fireworks and a band of mariachis. This way, Rachel would not be able to look at Finn Hudson with nothing that wasn't friendship, if not contempt, for the rest of her life. Not when she had himself waiting for her.

It was quite late, but he had stayed behind after school to work on some details for the school paper. Outside of those walls, Lima awaited. Jacob had been born and raised there, like every other Ben Israel before him, and his goal was to marry Rachel Berry, the most beautiful Jewish girl he had ever seen, and settle down in the house that had belonged to the Ben Israels for nearly a century. They had refused to go back to Israel following the sionist movement and instead had found a quiet place to settle down in Ohio, avoiding cremation under Hitler's hands.

He went past Coach Sylvester's office, ignoring the blue light that filtered under the door to the hall —God knew that woman was crazy and anything that went on inside that office would be enough to cure Ms. P of her OCD in a heartbeat, either that, or kill her from a heart attack— and walking towards the exit, when he heard voices coming from inside Mr. Figgins' office. He was curious by nature, he was the best journalist Lima, Ohio had to offer, and he couldn't ignore anything that happened within the walls of McKinley.

Figgins' office was dark, but the crystal walls offered a clear view of the silhouette's inside. Both of them wore black cloaks that covered their bodies, masking their features in darkness, but Jacob was sure he could identify them by the sound of their voices, so he held his breath.

"Are you sure no one will hear us, here?" asked one of the cloaked figures. He thought it was the tallest one, but he wasn't sure. "Well, then, give me whatever it is you have for me."

The shorter silhouette handed something to the other.

"Is this the Order's weak link? Poor, old Dumbledore trusts everyone too much. Our spy will look like a hairy rat, how fitting. I won't kill you today, for you have given me this, but do not expect me to be so benevolent in the near future. You are not doing your job, someone in this filthy school is working to overthrow me with the help of muggles and I want that bastard dead. Now-"

The man's words (for it was a man who was speaking, there was no doubt of that, even if his voice was kind of raspy, like a heavy smoker's might have been) were cut short with the slamming of a door. Startled, Jacob gasped and the silhouettes turned to him.

"Dear, dear, little mice are spying on us," said the same raspy voice.

Jacob fell to the ground on his butt, a chill settling all over his body and freezing his bones, and he shut his eyes tight while he waited for the outcome. Those men were talking about spies, they worked for some government and he had overheard them speaking; they would surely kill him now, pull a trigger before he could even think about screaming. He felt a warm wetness stick to his trousers and whimpered when he realised he had pissed himself in fear.

"I won't kill you tonight, boy," the man said, and Jacob opened his eyes to find snake-like eyes staring back at him. A hissing sound came not too far from where he was sitting on the ground, his knees bent and his legs spread open while he supported his weight on his hands. "Not tonight, Naggini. Now, boy, I know you have heard us, but I won't kill you. Not tonight. I'll let you run to Dumbledore, I'll let you tell him that Lord Voldemort has a spy in the Order. Come on, boy, run to the old wizard, tell him everything you've heard. Run. Run for your life!"

Jacob jumped to his feet and sprinted away from Figgins' office, his heart hammering away against his ribcage. He had no idea who that Dumbledore dude was, but that creep had scared him senseless. There was only one person who he could confide in, only one person who took McKinley's security with the seriousness it deserved, only one person who had a greater need to know everything that went on inside every single class of the building than himself —and her office was often refered to as the Seventh Circle of Hell.


	2. Chapter One: I've Got The Crazies

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to my beloved Queen Rowling, Evil Santa George R. R. Martin and the douchebag that is Ryan Murphy. I am the crazy person who thought Harry Potter + ASoIaF + Glee would be a good idea. Don't hate on me.

Full summary: "This is the biggest war we'll ever be in and it will last for years and years. You must remember that it's not all about wizards and witches; there are muggles out there too, fighting for their own damn lives. This is a race, doll, if we get to the end, we're free. If not —well, then, if not, Lord Fuckface will have the power. You think this is a game? We're just a bunch o' fucker waving our magic sticks and praying those fuckin' bullets hit some Death Eaters. You wanna do somethin'? Then fight. You want some advice? Don't you get fucking killed, motherfuckers." (In which there is no Chosen One.)

Reviews are welcomed. Flamers not so much but, well, if you can't resist the temptation... Since the Preface makes no sense, here's chapter 1. Enjoy, darlings.

* * *

**Chapter One: I've Got The Crazies**

Lily knew many things; she knew her friend Alice had been crushing on an older man since Easter, when she'd gone home over the holiday, and that said man was Frank Longbottom, a former Gryffindor and newly graduated auror; she knew that Remus Lupin was not sick once a month whenever there was a full moon, even though she still refused to confront him about it because it was none of her business, to begin with, and she was afraid her conclusions were wrong; she also knew, without a doubt, that her friendship of several years with Severus Snape was done for good, despite her best efforts to mend it throughout the year. Lily Evans was a smart girl —impulsive and foolish at times, yes, like every other Gryffindor before her, she believed, but smart nonetheless— and she knew when to quit a lost cause or when, to embelish such harsh words, to abandon a sinking ship. The Sorting Hat ought to have put her in Ravenclaw, wise, old Ravenclaw; instead, he had put her in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart. She did not feel specially brave or daring, despite being out of bed well past curfew, she only felt cold and angry.

"I thought I had seen something catching fire by the lake and I wasn't that far off. Your head will catch on fire if you don't quit thinking so hard."

"I really don't feel like hearing you gloat, Black," Lily said, tugging at her scarf to free her mouth. Summer was upon them, but only as long as the sun was out; once night set in, it became chilly fast.

"Don't be like that, I've come to take care of you. I saw you on your way out and I didn't think being alone was the best idea."

Sirius Black's eyes sparkled with mischief, something that was not rare, but Lily had seldom seen that expression directed at her. They didn't run in the same circles and she found his antiques distasteful most of the times, so they tended to ignore each other. But they were in the same house and they had shared a common room for five years, now, so she could say she knew him enough to know he was up to something.

"I've been out for nearly an hour, now. Surely following me out here wouldn't have taken you so long."

"I became distracted on the way. See, the house elves are very attentive and they fed me treacle tarts well and good until I was almost bursting. I've brought you some, though. And Firewhisky from my secret stash. Even the almighty Lily Evans will agree that such an occasion deserves some good ol' Firewhisky from Uncle Sirius."

Lily wrinkled her nose at his words and his terrible accent (whether he was trying for American or Canadian, she had no idea), and looked away from his smirk. He was handsome, the most handsome boy in their year, but he had a wilderness in him, a mad streak to his smooth exterior that made her weary of his every word and action.

She looked at the sky, black and blue, velvet and satin, and licked her lips at the thought of tasting the white and grey clouds. The stars sparkled up above her head like pearls and diamonds scattered all over the Universe and she breathed in the fresh air tainted with grass and flowers and the water from the lake. She threw her hair back and turned once again to look at the boy beside her. He was still smirking, though he looked less sure of himself.

"I'll start with the treacle tarts. Then we'll see."

Sirius smiled —a true smile, all teeth and gums, not the infuriating smirk he so prefered— and passed her the treats in a paper bag.

"Have them all. I'm good for the next year or so."

She ate a little one before speaking again.

"So, how are you going to take care of me?" she asked, rubbing her hands together to get rid of the crumbs.

"Not in the way you'd like."

"You mean you won't go away and leave me here alone to choke on my own misery while getting fatter by eating all these by myself?"

"Sure."

"So how, then?"

"My plan consists of getting you tipsy," he said, smirking again.

Lily was not a saint, not by far; she drank her fair share of butterbeer on Hogsmeade weekends and a lot of Firewhisky mixed with honey or Dornish Red spiced up and sweetened whenever Gryffindor won a Quidditch match, as was expected of her; getting drunk, or tipsy, with only Sirius Black as company, though, was not high on her list of desirable situations. His sense of humour was crooked and he was persuasive enough to convince her of skinny dipping so late at night with only the Giant Squid for company.

"Don't say no yet, Evans, think about it."

"I don't want to get drunk, I'll just feel worse in the morning, you know. I'll feel alone and hungover."

"You really liked him, uh?"

"He is- was my best friend. Sort of like you and James, but less juvenile and more… I don't know."

Sirius sighed. When he did that, his whole demeanor changed. He did not look like Sirius Black, the arrogant arse who got away with way too much, a fifteen year old with the world at his feet, but more like a boy who was not ready yet to become a man. She did not know if her perceptions of him where accurate, but in that moment it felt like they were so.

"I get it. You were close and then something snapped and suddenly things were different."

"Yeah."

"Story of my life, doll," he said, moving to grab something from his cloak. He opened the bottle of Firewhisky with practised ease and uncapped it in mere seconds, not bothering to say anything at her. He took a sip, groaned at the taste and spit in the ground before handing her the bottle.

It was the cheap stuff, nothing like the wine from the Dornish vines or Winterfell's vodka that Alice's parents preferred. She imitated him, taking a small sip to taste it, and choked on it.

"Easy. Not used to it?"

"I only drink it with honey or cola," she managed to get out between coughs.

"You have to live life on the spot, Evans, that's corrupting a perfectly good thing."

"I hardly think this is good," she whined, chest still burning.

Sirius shrugged, not the least impressed with her pout, and took the bottle from her to gulp down a generous amount of alcohol in one swing.

"If you want to forget about Snape being a dickhead, you'll drink it just fine."

He was right, of course, and Lily took the bottle from him when he offered it to her again to sip at it delicately before resting it inbetween her legs to nibble at a treacle tart. He was looking at her with amusement evident in his eyes, as if she were a small child being cute without realising it, and she blushed under the insistance of his stare.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just that James likes you quite a bit."

She had not thought possible to scoff and blush at the same time, but Sirius Black and James Potter were extraordinary men, it seemed, even if the latter wasn't even present.

"Well, don't worry, the holidays are just around the corner, so he'll forget about me soon enough. Just like he forgot about Margot Frey last year."

"Jealous?"

Lily rolled her eyes.

"No, but Margot's little sister is a bit of a gossip, so all the girls at Gryffindor Tower were tuned to that epic romance."

Sirius nodded, though he didn't look convinced.

"So," he said, ignoring his friend's last failed relationship, "is that why you won't date him? Because you're afraid he will forget about you during the course of the summer?"

It was her turn to sigh, and she did so after taking a sip of the Firewhisky and passing the bottle to Sirius. He took it from her hands carefully and drank merrily from it.

"No, not at all. I don't want to go out with him because I don't like him like that. He's a bit of a bully, you know —you lot all are, and not only to Sev- Snape, but to others as well—, and he's only nice half the time, the other half he's pretty mean for the sake of being funny." She was not done, but she felt like she needed a drink to keep going. Sirius must have felt this and so he passed the bottle back to her. She was starting to feel light-headed and she realised with a start that half the bottle was gone. "I know I tend to overreact in certain situations, but I've always felt protective of him, since we were children. I've known him for so long, too, that he was just a constant in my life. He's been there through a lot and things at home aren't all that nice and jolly, so… I mean, they're not bad, per se, but Petunia knows how to be hurtful, so…"

"Yeah, I have one of those, too. Regulus, though you already know him. Lovely fellow, blood purist and really fucking racist. We used to be really close until I realised what a bunch of snakes they all are. Can't wait to get the fuck out of there."

"I'd adopt you," she joked, swinging the bottle around and smiling bitterly, "but Petunia would probably smother you in your sleep."

"Sweet."

They had polished the bottle in record time, though she suspected he could do it in half the time. She let him have the last remains (it was only fair after all, since he'd been so nice and brought it to her in the first place) and stood up once there was nothing left for them to drink, bag of treats tucked between her arms and cheeks flushed pink.

"We should get going."

"Yeah," he said, getting up too, just as flushed as her, "I'll walk you to your dorm."

"How chivalrous of you."

She rolled her eyes at him and, in response, he just grinned back at her.

"I know. A nice bloke like me can't let a lovely damsel in distress such as yourself wonder around the castle all alone and in her cups."

"Sweet," she answered in the same tone he had used just seconds ago and began walking back to the castle, followed by him.

* * *

The library smelled nice and she hated it for that. There was a memory of Severus in every corner —he had helped her with potions during their first months at Hogwarts, back when she didn't know anything, at the second table by the high window; they had studied for their History tests at the little table tucked away between shelf twelve and shelf thirteen of the west wing; they had read Hogwarts, A History sitting on the floor while eating small, cider-flavoured pies when the librarian wasn't looking. The library was their spot, theirs. The silence, the books, the history, the knowledge… everything in there protected them from the outside world, from the rest of the school, from the prejudices against both of them, like a soft cocoon. She positively hated everything about it and she made it clear by the way she stomped over to Madame Pince's desk, clutching a worn, small book against her chest with white knuckles.

Lily had never, in her life, been kicked out of anywhere, so she made it a point to ignore the boy sitting on the third table with the biggest book she had ever seen opened in front of him as to avoid exactly that. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene and give him the satisfaction of letting him know she cared. It was obvious she did, though, if the way she was trying to will the room into catching fire by itself was any indication. She decided to ignore that, too, and handed over the book to the librarian as quick as she was able. Once everything was settled, she made for the door straight away, ignoring the burning sensation of being watched, and breathed a sigh of relief when the door slowly shut itself behind her back. She didn't get to experiment her relief for long, for the door opened before it had even been completely closed and Severus came out of the library looking guilty.

Good, she thought, walking away from him, knowing well enough that he would follow her, let him feel guilty. He shouldn't even be allowed to look at me.

"Lily, I've been meaning to speak with you since-"

"I know," she cut him, "but I didn't want to speak with you. I still don't," she clarified when she thought she had seen what she deemed a spark of hope in his eyes, "but we must speak at some point, I guess, if only to settle things straight."

"Yes, I know, that's why-"

She stopped by an archway, letting her hair fly around her head and bounce against her back. The movement caught the light from the setting sun and it shined orange and red and gold, as if God had thrown his hands over her and marked her to announce his glory. But she felt anything but glorious —there was a burning sensation in her chest and her heart kept clenching every two and a half seconds, and if she hadn't started crying yet (as she had done for nearly five hours on Alice's lap first and then on Marlene's), it was only because there was too much rage caged within her.

"Make it quick, Seve- Snape."

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Lily, I really am."

Part of her —the part that loved him, that is, the part that still remembered playing tag with him on the park near her house, back before Hogwarts, back before blood mattered— felt glad that he had come to her to apologise; that part wanted to forgive him and embrace him and forget anything had ever happened. That part of her wanted to get back inside the library and eat the treacle tarts she still had from her night spent getting drunk with Sirius by the lake while hiding from Madame Pince. The other part of her —the part that had gotten drunk on Firewhisky with Sirius Black, of all people, the logical part of her that knew how this story ended, the part that was mad and angry and devastated— was the one who won the inexistent argument in her head.

She took a step back from him, balled her hands into fists and breathed in deeply.

"Sorry's not gonna cut it," she managed to spit out.

"Lily, I… I'll do anything. Anything, I promise!"

"That's the thing, I don't want you to do anything," she cried, her voice cracking, "anything at all. I want to pretend you don't exist, I want to pretend we were never friends."

"Please, Lily, don't do this. You don't have to do this."

Hold the tears for a bit longer, Evans, she thought, but the voice in her head sounded oddly like Black's.

"You had a choice, and you chose. You chose wrong. Now it's my time to choose, and I choose to cut all ties with you."

You were close and then something snapped and suddenly things were different.

"Lily, please. You're my best friend."

... Pretty fucking racist...

"You betrayed me, Severus."

"You called me Snivellus!" he snapped; he had said it as if it were the greatest of crimes, the most terrible of insults.

She realised then, that to him, it was: that word alone represented everything James Potter and Sirius Black were to him, along with Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, and she had used it to hurt him. She had known all that, of course, in the back of her mind, that was why she had used it in the first place, but after that terrible afternoon she hadn't stopped to think about it. She tucked it away in a corner of her mind to think about it later, so she could ponder about what kind of person that made her, and focused on the boy before her.

"Yeah, and you called me mudblood, so I guess you'll be taking home the prize for biggest douche out there. Have fun polishing it."

With that, she turned away from him and left towards her Tower, leaving him there by himself. As she went, without turning back to take one last look at him, she hoped he felt ten times worse than she did, but she wasn't sure that was even possible.

* * *

For once in her life, Lily was looking forward to going home and leaving Hogwarts behind for some time. As much as she loved everything about it, as of now she was in dire need of some alone time with herself and, above all else, several afternoons spent reading in quiet content with her father. Her mother would be all smiles and laughter and hugs; but it was the steady beating of her father's heart against her cheek when he hugged her that she longed for.

The girls were still sleeping when she came out of her bath bundled up in her favourite yellow robe and she was careful to not make any noise as she folded her sleeping gown and put it away in her trunk, along with the rest of her things. She chose to wear a cream dress with buttons in the back that her mother loved on her and white sandals that showed her red toenails to match the polish on her fingernails. As she brushed her hair back from her face, Alice stirred in her bed.

"Is it…?" but she couldn't seem to finish her sentence, sleepy as she was. Lily understood her, though, and smiled fondly at her friend.

"Shh," she whispered, trying hard not to giggle, "it's only seven, sleep some more, love."

Alice seemed satisfied by that and turned around under the covers. Lily made sure she was really asleep before walking towards her and closing the curtains around her bed so the light wouldn't bother her. Then she turned to her trunk and checked, for the fourth time, that she had everything she needed packed; she had checked twice the night before, once after packing and then before going to bed, and then she had checked a third time before she had retired to the bathroom to get rid of the sweat she had accumulated over the night with a quick shower and a warm bath to calm her growing nerves. Everything was packed perfectly, exactly like she had left it.

She spread her robe over the bed, grabbed her wand and flicked it graciously; the fluffy cloth dried inmediately and she smiled, pleased with herself. She so loved the little details of magic. She tucked her wand behind her ear for lack of a better place, folded the now dry robe and put it away with the rest of her things. Everything was neat and tidy on her side, so she closed her trunk, left her handbag over it and skipped off towards breakfast.

The Great Hall was fairly empty. On the Gryffindor table sat a small group of seventh years of which Jaime Lannister, captain of their quidditch team, was a part of, while his twin sister, Cersei, sat at the Slytherin table drinking her juice gingerly. On the middle of the table and using too much space to be considered polite sat Remus Lupin and James Potter, whispering between them. Just the sight of the latter made her stomach clench, and not in a good way. She decided to sit by herself not too far from them so as to not appear impolite or afraid, but far enough to not hear a thing they were saying.

She filled her plate with scrambled eggs, bacon and baked potatoes; then she measured the right amount of coffee, milk, sugar and vanilla and filled a glass with pumpkin juice; once everything was right like she wanted it to be, she grabbed a newspaper from the table that only god knew who had left it there and balanced it against her glass so she could read it while she ate. The paper was from the night before and it was sticky with what seemed to be grease and tobasco sauce and she tried not to touch it too much while she turned the pages to find an interview to someone who worked on the Ministry. She was halfway through the questions, reading about how their aurors had efficiently broken through a protest against muggleborns being allowed to have high ranks within the Governement, when a loud bark of laughter startled her. She tore her eyes from the paper to search for whoever it was that was having so much fun at such an early hour; Remus was sitting alone now, chewing his sausages thoroughly, and the older Gryffindors were all looking at Jaime Lannister as he tried to say something inbetween fits of laughter. A boy his age with brown, reddish hair was clapping him on the back and laughing too.

"Evans," came a voice behind her.

She knew who it was and turned around dreading his intentions. James Potter stood before her, his black, messy hair sticking out everywhere and his hazel eyes aprehensive behind his spectacles. He looked as nervous as she felt, which was something new entirely —she hadn't seen him nervous since the Sorting Ceremony, back in first year, when Professor McGonagall had left them waiting a good total of ten minutes in a small room before letting them inside the Great Hall—, and she almost felt bad for him. Almost. She was too busy feeling bad for herself to spare the enough energy to care for him.

"Yes?"

"I, um… Could we…?" he stammered, clenching his fists and looking at a spot past her shoulder. He hissed, suddenly angry at himself, she guessed, and started again, "Could we talk?"

She placed a mug at the place beside her and asked, "Tea or coffee?" gesturing at the table. He seemed confused by her. She rolled her eyes and patted the seat beside her, "Sit down, Potter."

He did as he was told and quickly climbed on the bench to sit with her. He filled his mug to the brim with the steaming tea and threw two sugar cubes in it. Lily was not fond of tea in the morning. In fact, she hardly ever drank the beverage if she could take coffee as an alternative, but James was of an ancient British, pureblood family, and they took tradition by heart, so of course he would be a tea lover.

They sat in silence for a few moments, which Lily took advantage of to look at him properly. He was handsome, in a boyish kind of way —he was tall and lean, fair skinned, even though it was warm enough to tan easily, and amusing; he would have been average looking, Lily thought, if it weren't for his strong jaw and slightly sharp chin. He tipped his head back and blinked a couple of times before turning to her.

"I came here to, well… Uh… You have a wrong impression of me," he managed to say finally, and Lily arched an eyebrow with practised ease, "I'm not a blood purist. I don't think you're beneath me at all. In fact, you're smarter than me in many ways, everyone knows that, I mean you always-"

"You're digressing, Potter," she interrupted, playing with the remaining food in her plate; "Look, I'm sorry I put you in the same level as him," she spit, not bothering to clarify who she was referring to, since they both knew who it was well enough, "because I know you're not a purist. But the truth is you are arrogant and you are a bully."

"I am?" he asked, looking surprised.

"Yes," she said without missing a beat, "you are. You taunt other students and pull pranks on them and you thought it would be a good idea to hang Snape upside down in the air. That's mean, Potter, and childish. You need to realise that while something might be funny, it doesn't mean it's right. I thought it was funny," she confessed, looking him in the eye for the first time since the start of the conversation, "but I also knew it was wrong."

"Oh. So, uh…"

"I don't think we should talk," she said, her appetite suddenly gone, and James look dejected, "not now, anyways," she amended. "Right now I do believe that you're partly responsible for the end of my friendship with Snape."

"But-"

She didn't let him speak.

"I said right now. I am well aware that it's only my bitterness at the situation clouding my brain, thank you very much. But right now, all I can think about is how I would have been able to save that friendship if I had had a little time, if you and your friends hadn't decided to mock him and humiliate him in public. I know it's not fair."

"It's not," he said with such seriousness it startled her, "but I understand."

"I think with summer I'll come to my senses and forgive you in my mind. Perhaps then we could try and start to tolerate each other."

"Yeah."

"And then we could try and be kinda friends?"

"That'd be nice," he said, half-smiling.

Lily nodded and James held his hand for her to shake. Rolling her eyes, she accepted it. She was half expecting something to happen —for him to pull a prank on her, for the ground to open up and reveal a freezed Hell, for Dumbledore to start tap dancing on top of a table—, but everything remained fairly normal, if she didn't count the fact that she was shaking hands with the same boy she had insulted not too many days ago. She smiled at James, bid him goodbye and departed the Great Hall to return to the Tower to check once more her trunk. When she entered the dormitory, the girls were in different states of dressed and she sat down upon her bed to tell them of the conversation she had shared with one James Potter. Mary Macdonald smirked and Marlene McKinnon laughed. Alice simply smiled and it was Carolina Cane, who was a bit of a loner and tended to avoid talking to them despite having been roommates for five years, who actually spoke.

"That was very mature of you, Lily," she said, her voice shy and tiny, "admirable, even."

"Thank you, Cece."

"You would be a good friend to Potter," she dared to say, looking nervous at Lily's reaction, "and perhaps he could be good to you, too."

Lily smiled and Carolina went back to packing her things.

Later, while she sat on the train and looked out the window to catch a last glimpse of Hogsmeade, she wondered about all that had happened in the last couple of weeks of school. She rested her head on Marlene's shoulder and felt her kiss the top of her head sweetly; before her, Alice sat playing with the ends of her soft, brown hair, while Mary was at the door talking to her boyfriend, John Glass. It felt normal, but she knew, deep down, that the world had gone crazy.


	3. Chapter Two: The Prince That Was Promise

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to my beloved Queen Rowling, Evil Santa George R. R. Martin and the douchebag that is Ryan Murphy. I am the crazy person who thought Harry Potter + ASoIaF + Glee would be a good idea. Don't hate on me.

Full summary: "This is the biggest war we'll ever be in and it will last for years and years. You must remember that it's not all about wizards and witches; there are muggles out there too, fighting for their own damn lives. This is a race, doll, if we get to the end, we're free. If not —well, then, if not, Lord Fuckface will have the power. You think this is a game? We're just a bunch o' fucker waving our magic sticks and praying those fuckin' bullets hit some Death Eaters. You wanna do somethin'? Then fight. You want some advice? Don't you get fucking killed, motherfuckers." (In which there is no Chosen One.)

Reviews are welcomed. Flamers not so much but, well, if you can't resist the temptation... The reason this chapter is out is because I'm avoiding other stories. Like The Gods or a Big Bang thingy. I'm a terrible person.

Writing from Lyanna's POV didn't make me hate Rhaegar any less, but I'm pretty sure I didn't let my hate for him cloud the narrative. And I'm not sure I did Catelyn any justice, I can only hope.

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Prince That Was Promised**

Lyanna loved it when her parents dropped her off with her Grandmother, so near the sea. It got lonely, though, for she was very old, but it did not matter much, since she always allowed her to walk around town by herself, unlike her parents and her brothers. She was fourteen years old, would be turning fifteen next winter, and she was determined to enjoy her summer holidays before returning to Hogwarts to begin her fourth year of education. Hogwarts was very exciting and she was a Gryffindor, as Brandon had been before her —it was the best House, for it had the best quidditch team, for which she would be trying out this year as a chaser, with James Potter, Sirius Black and Jaime Lannister as star players; the brightest students, with Alan Hobbs and June Mayfair in seventh year, though they had graduated, Donavin Smith in sixth year and Lily Evans in fifth year, and the most popular students in school: seventh year and already graduated Jaime Lannister and the four best friends, James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. She felt very lucky to be in such a great house.

But she was in no mood to think about school. It was summer and she was young and pretty, and though the end of school had made her sad, for she would not be seeing her friends until September, it had been good for her. Her crush on Sirius Black was gone, replaced by a warm feeling for someone else. He, of course, was very different to the handsome beater; Rhaegar was —for a lack of a better word— perfect. He was gentle and caring, nice and sweet; cultured and well-read, extremely handsome and intelligent, for smart felt too weak a word to describe his intellect, he was also poetic, artistic, sensible, bright, if somewhat melancholic, and loving. She was absolutely sure she was halfway in love with him and would not take long for her to be it completely. She was not afraid, just apprehensive. Rhaegar was older than her, twenty-four years old, to be exact, and she could not fathom a reason for him to love her half as much as she loved him.

She was pretty, but he was gorgeous; she was smart, but he surpassed that in a way words could not explain; she was lively, while he was pensive. But, in her heart, she knew they were perfect for each other.

She saw him waiting for her by the ice cream parlour and she picked up her pace to meet him inmediately. His lilac eyes shined with mirth when he saw her and she took that as a sign that their love was a good thing. She loved his eyes, from the colour to their exquisite shape, monolid, he had called them, like his mother's. His soft, silver hair was a mess, though he was dressed impecably, as if he had just gotten out of work. When she reached him, she got on her tip-toes and kissed him chastely on the lips. His hand was warm when he took hers and she relished the fact that he would want to hold hands with her in public.

"Hey," he said softly, tugging her along as he walked to get them some ice cream, "how's everything, my sweet?"

"Fine," she said, blushing at the endearing terms he so loved to use on her. "Nana's all right. She asks a lot about you, says she'd like to meet you. I always tell her you're busy though; she knows you're a bit older and that you work already," she said and waited until he hummed in acknowledgment to continue talking. "How's your girl? Rhaenys?"

"She's fine. Lovely, as always. I've brought a picture with me this time, so you can see."

"And Elia? Does she…?"

"No," he said inmediately, blushing furiously.

His pale skin was flushed with embarrassment and she wanted to kick herself for being so foolish, so _young_. But she couldn't help it, she worried. Elia Targaryen was Rhaegar's wife and the mother of her daughter and she was bound to discover her husband was unfaithful; he couldn't fool her with a tale of working late forever.

"It's not wrong," she said at last, taking him away from the queue, for suddenly she didn't feel like getting ice cream, "it is not wrong if you don't love each other."

Rhaegar looked at her with his lovely eyes and she smiled encouragingly before kissing him again —she did it slowly, deeply, not at all chastely; she kissed him until she felt it in her belly and her toes, kissed him with her lips and her tongue and her heart, with all of her. He curled his hand around her neck and let his fingers tangle in the strands of her dark hair. Later, she would look back and think of this as her favourite kiss of all, but as of now she could only loose herself in his smell and hope to not fall down to her knees with the intensity of it.

When they parted, she held her breath for a few seconds, savouring the last remains of his lips on hers, and then she breathed normally again. He was smiling at her, his eyes alight with adoration, and she could feel it in her bones, the burning feeling, the desire, the love. She laced her fingers with his and squeezed.

"Love me tonight," she said, looking at him through her lashes.

"I can't."

"Love me tonight," she repeated.

"Lya…"

She freed one of her hands to cup his jaw and caressed his cheek with the tips of her fingers. His skin was silky smooth and his lips, pink and thin, parted when her thumb grazed them.

"Forget about them for tonight, Rhaegar. Forget about Elia and Rhaenys, about your father, your mother and your brother in Russia; forget about the Ministry and You-Know-Who for just tonight. I am here and you are here for me and we should make the most of it, because I want to love you and I want you to love me. Take me to Red Manor, Rhaegar, and love me. Love me until I have to go back home."

* * *

Rhaegar's fingers were soft on her naked back —he kept drawing shapes and scribbling things, but his favourite where the eights he kept drawing over her spine, right in the middle of her naked flesh. He had been sweet and lovely, had murmured things in her ear all the time, had called her beautiful, had said she was born to be a queen and he had kissed her all over, made sure she was flushed and ready and needy before taking her. It had hurt just a little bit, enough to make her draw in a breath, but he had soothed it with a lingering kiss on the lips and by rubbing his fingers where they had been joined. He had suckled on her breasts, moved her hair away from her face with the palm of his hand, buried his face on her neck…

"I love you," he said suddenly, his fingers halting their movement, and she shifted to look at him, seated against the headboard of the bed. "I love you," he repeated, much more confident, now, "love you like I've never loved another woman before you. I've loved Elia, sometimes, like the day we conceived Rhaenys or the day she told me she was with child, the day we discovered it would be a girl and the day she was born —but I've never truly_ loved_ her. I do now, though, love you, that is, not her. I could never love her, not as long as you were alive and even then, I'd still love you."

She got to her knees, not caring that the sheets had fallen from her and had pooled on the bed at her backside and that she was completely naked in front of him. It felt right, somehow, to look so vulnerable before this man, who had bore his soul to her.

"You are mine and I am yours, Rhaegar. There is nothing that can change that. No matter how many times you return to her bed or she calls you hers, you are _mine_. And I am yours, for however long you'll take me, yes?"

Rhaegar put a hand between her shoulderblades and another on her hip and tipped her back on the bed so he could position himself between her legs. She could feel every bit of him against her, from the straight lines of his chest against her breasts to the soft hairs of his legs against her inner thighs; and she could feel him soft against her hipbone, growing hard and hot with every passing second.

"What a cruel world," he said at last, looking her intently in the eyes, "that would make me marry young, long before I had a chance to meet you, my darling. But ours is the song of ice and fire, I say, and ours will be the prince that was promised."

Sometimes he spoke like that, in riddles, but she did not mind. He was hers in a way he had never been Elia's and that was what mattered in her mind.

* * *

Catelyn lifted her eyes from the book she was reading to look at her boyfriend, who was busy writing a letter to his sister. Brandon was scratching his nose with the quill and he had a smudge of ink on his cheek. Several weeks ago, that would have made her smile —she would have put her book aside, interesting as it was, and she would've walked towards him to sit on his lap and laugh at the silly look in his eyes. That was several weeks back, when their relationship was still working and she had thought it was about time they moved in together. She had thought wrong, if the awkwardness between them was any sign of the state of their relationship.

She could hardly concentrate on her reading when all she could think about was how awful everything felt now. She had been with him for so long —nearly four years, already— that she'd thought it was time they took the next step. But Brandon Stark was _emotionally crippled_, in her sister's words, and he had all but told her —except he hadn't, but that was unimportant at the moment— that he did not care enough. Bloody wanker.

She was a smart and talented nineteen years old student and part-time worker. Once she finished her internship at the end of summer, she'd be ready to start working properly on her Uncle's company. She was succesful. She knew what she wanted and she pursued it. Except her boyfriend didn't want the same as her.

She had shooed her family away from their house and had cooked dinner herself with the help of the house elves, following one of her late mother's favourite cooking books; she had set up a table lit with candles and adorned it with flowers and had polished the good silverware; she had even bought new robes and new dragon-heel shoes and had let her maids style her hair in a way that made her red tresses curl around her face and look softer and shinier than ever. Everything had been perfect and Brandon had been lovely. Until she had dropped the news, of course; then he'd turned white, red and purple, gradually, and she had wanted to hex him into the next millenium.

They had made peace, eventually, and she had agreed to wait. At that moment, she had been sure he'd see sense at any minute, as he was often prone to, but she had been wrong; and she hadn't really known what she was waiting on, really. Now she had a clearer idea and she was certain by the time she gathered the courage to confront him, she'd have to hex him into the underworld. Her relationship was dead, she knew, but she didn't want to acknowledge it. Even if she had begun to mourn it before it had ended properly. Oficially, that is.

Sighing, mad at herself and at him and at the hope that still lingered in her heart, she closed the book and dropped it somewhere in the couch and reached for the newspaper instead. _The Prophet_ was a bunch of rubbish typed by a group of baboons, but she was addicted to it nonetheless. On the other side of the room, Benjen, Brandon's little brother, had given up on his homework and left the room after smiling at her. She turned her attention to the articles that made her want to smother children and kick puppies.

"A muggleborn's been murdered in Ipswich," she said out loud, reading through the article, "and do you remember Lucy Dearborn?" she asked, but continued talking, not bothering to wait for his answer, "she married some muggleborn boy not many months ago. Well, I've heard that someone's sending her menacing letters and the other day she found her office upside down. Someone had written 'mudblood's whore' on the walls with red letters. She's scared senseless."

She looked up to see Brandon still working on his letter.

"Well, she's a Dearborn, is she not? Great family. Great witch, too. She can take care of herself. And, if not, that's what the aurors are for."

"Yeah, well… But-"

"Leave it be, Cat. It's just some silly schoolboys with too much free time and too much energy in their bodies. It will pass."

She folded the _Prophet_ and set it on the coffee table before turning to him, eyebrows raised and an incredulous smile on her lips.

"And You-Know-Who?"

She saw Brandon roll his eyes at her and repressed the urge to bite his head off. That was just so rude and unnecessary, as if her ideas and her fears were nothing more than hysterical feminine mood swings.

"He's just some fucked up activist with radical ideas that will not catch."

"You can't be serious," she snapped, not bothering to mask the bite in her words.

"Cat," he said, his tone warning.

"Where have you been this past year, Brandon? His ideas are already rolling, they've caught people —Blacks and Malfoys and Carrows and Lestranges, do they ring a bell to you?— and they are acting on them. Muggleborns are being murdered, Brandon."

"The Ministry-"

"Does the name _nazis_ seems familiar to you? It's… No one is doing anything!"

"You're overreacting," he said, putting the letter aside, and he jumped to his feet with the same energy he did everything else, "I'm sure they're doing all they can. It's the Ministry, Cat, our parents work there and they're honorable fellows. Do not think poorly of them. And you don't need to worry about this, anyways, you're safe, I promise you, it doesn't concern you." She would have stabbed him then and there, with her own fingernails, for she was too railed up to reach for her wand, if he hadn't continued speaking as if nothing was wrong with the rubbish that was coming out of his mouth. "What time is it? I've misplaced my pocketwatch."

The question gave her time to calm and collect herself.

"Half past four. Summon it, then, an _accio_ should suffice."

"Yes, always so clever. I've got to go, now, I've practice."

That took her by surprise.

"Practice? That doesn't start until six, doesn't it?"

He was too distracted to mind the suspicious tone with which she had talked and she almost rolled her own eyes at him.

"Oh, yes, yes. But Babs and I need to practise some movements and get them perfect before the rest of the team joins us. You know how it is, Cat."

"Babs?"

Brandon's distracted smile faltered for barely two seconds, but Catelyn had seen it —she'd seen the way his eyes filled with worry and guilt and he looked away from her face and over her shoulder.

"Yes," he said at last, "Ryswell, you know. Number six."

"Yes, of course, Ryswell, the beater."

"Mhmm…"

Catelyn picked up her book from the couch and her purse from where it was resting on the floor and perched it atop her shoulder.

"I should get going, they must be waiting for me."

"I'll see you later, Cat."

She shrugged and let him kiss her on the forehead before leaving. She didn't apparate, as she would have done usually. She walked as if dazed through the halls of Winterfell, thinking about Brandon and his behaviour. She knew what was going on, she wasn't stupid, despite what everyone wanted to think. Loyalty and hard working came first to her than say, ambition or bravery or wits, as any good Hufflepuff, but that didn't mean she wasn't ambitious, brave or smart. Brandon might have thought he was fooling her, but he wasn't. And he'd been thick enough to make a big mistake, that afternoon. A mistake that had all but confirmed her suspicions.

He hadn't called that woman Babs since the beginning of their relationship, when he'd cheated on Catelyn with her. Barbrey Ryswell, the woman was, a beater in his team, and Brandon had had an affair with her while Catelyn herself was away at Hogwarts, but he'd put a stop to it soon enough and had promised her it wouldn't happen again. He'd started calling her Ryswell from then on. And here he was again, being secretive and rude to her and calling that vile woman Babs. He had _promised_.

She stopped when she reached the door and clenched her fist just as she was reaching for the knob. He had promised and he had broken his promise. What was it, that Petyr always said? _Cheaters always cheat. He's done it once, he'll do it again, Cat._

Of course. She turned around, determination setting within her, and marched towards her boyfriend again. She had forgiven, but she had never forgotten. And she did not have it in her to forgive him again or build their relationship from scratch when it was so obvious he wouldn't work on it with her.

_Besides_, she thought, venom dripping even inside her head, _Lucy is not a Dearborn; not anymore, now she's a Packston_. And, stupid as the thought in itself was, it gave her comfort.

* * *

Her brother's letter burned in the pocket of her robes and she could feel its presence even when she tried to concentrate on her Transfigurations homework.

Red Manor was the Targaryen's beach house, although they barely used it anymore. Rhaegar's wife was sickly and favoured the countryside, so she spent long periods in the North whenever she wasn't in London. Rhaegar, on the other side, came whenever he felt like he needed a breath from the city and work. Lyanna loved it —not as much as she loved Winterfell, for she had the wolfblood in her, but loved it nonetheless. Rhaegar's chambers overlooked the sea from atop the cliff where it sat and his study's walls were covered in shelves and shelves of books and parchments, much like the school's library. She sat there, on the plush chair, working on something that did not seem fit for such a magestic place.

Sighing, she dropped the quill and reached for the letter.

_My dear Lya,_

_Things at home are well and I presume, by the last letter you sent Brandon, that everything is lovely at Nana's. I am glad to hear._

_I bear sad news for you, I'm afraid; Brandon and Catelyn are no longer together and we won't be seeing much of her anymore. I know you liked her and were looking forward for a sister to assist you in the matters your brothers can't, but Brandon insists that they are done for good and that she no longer desires to have anything to do with us Starks. However, I suspect Miss Tully didn't mean the Starks as a whole and something more along the lines as Brandon himself; she might still want to be your friend and I see no objections as to why you shouldn't keep in touch with her._

_I must warn you, sister, that now that you are fourteen and flowered, Father has seen fit to start looking for a suitable husband for you. You are young still, he is aware, but my good friend Robert Baratheon has asked him to consider him as a suitable match for you for when you are off age. The betrothal wouldn't be oficial, but, if he agrees, you would be bound to him. I warn you, for I know Father well enough to see that he is tempted and that he will, in all likeness, agree to betroth you to Robert. He is a good man and the Baratheons are a good and old family, as you know already._

_I hope to have given you time to come to terms with it for Father will tell you once you get back from your holidays with Nana. Do enjoy your time by the sea and your summer flings, pup. We miss you._

_Your favourite brother,_

_Ned._

"I've thought about it."

Rhaegar's voice startled her and the letter fell from her hands. He was leaning against the doorframe, smiling softly at her with those sweet eyes of his. He was resting in such a way that his shoulders seemed tense, but that might have been because his arms were crossed.

"About what?" she asked quietly.

"Your betrothal."

"Have you been crying for me? I still haven't, you know. But I'm sure I will. Any minute, now."

"No," he said, walking towards her slowly, deliberately, "I haven't cried, darling. But I've been thinking."

"So you've said."

When he reached her, he dropped to his knees before her and rested his hands on her bare legs. They were big and pale, soft and elegant. She hadn't seen hands like his; her Father's were wrinkled, her brothers' were calloused, Benjen's were childish… Rhaegar's were the hands of a poet, of a musician, of an artist, of a lover.

"Come with me."

"Where to?"

"Anywhere," he said, his voice not quite there, "anywhere we want, but away from here. I'll take you away and you won't have to marry anyone. I'll love you and you'll love me and that's that."

The way he said it, as if he was sure they'd love each other forever, made her heart beat faster and stronger against her ribcage. Rhaegar was older and wiser and perfect —he knew how the world was, how everything worked and how to make it better. She made him happy and the only reason he had been unfaithful to his wife was because he'd fallen in love with Lyanna, had felt something for her that wasn't there with the other woman. He would take her away, leave Elia and be with her instead, and she'd live with him, marry him, study at Hogwarts and then she'd play quidditch for the Holy Harpies, bear him children if he wanted her to. She knew he did, that he wanted more kids that his wife couldn't give him.

Why shouldn't she do it? Why shouldn't she be happy? What right did her Father have to decide her future, the course her life should take? She didn't want to marry right after school, work some boring job for the Ministry and have baby after baby. She wanted to decide who she'd marry, where she'd work and when she'd have babies. He couldn't take that option from her. He couldn't —not when Rhaegar, the man she _loved_, was offering something more. He was offering her freedom.

"I could go with you."

"It's for the greater good," he murmured against the skin of her thighs. That he would consider her hapiness, their love, the most important thing in the world filled her soul in a way that she hadn't thought possible.

Later, she would look back on this day and the love would be mixed with resignation and she would remember him speaking to himself while she was half asleep on his bed, saying things about prophesies, princes that were promised and saving the wizarding world. But that was in the future, many months from now, and she would be older and wiser and worn; now she was young and sweet and pretty, wild and stubborn, a wolf. Now, she could only focus on the way he said her name —_Lee-aah-na_— or how he kissed her with all his body.


End file.
